


Skin

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: True Detective
Genre: Affairs, Age Difference, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Body Paint, Dark Themes Relating to the Fashion Industry, Drabble, Eating Disorders (Mentioned), First Time Bottoming, M/M, Minor Character Death (Mentioned), Murder (mentioned), New York City, Not Beta Read, Nudity, Older Man/Younger Man, Romance, Soulmates, Top!Rust, Violence (mentioned), bottom!Marty, essentially an AU of 2012 Marty and '95 Rust, older!Marty, young!Rust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-06
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-09-28 16:41:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 20,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10139162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: Marty had been hearing his name for years. There wasn’t anyone in industry who hadn’t– anyone who traded in flesh, in beauty and youth, had heard of him.Rustin Cohle.(OR: a sorta-soulmate AU because time is a flat circle. Also, bottom!Marty.)





	1. Chapter 1

Marty wasn’t entirely sure why he'd done it.

He was used to the girls. Used to their bodies, so porcelain and fragile, and their contradictions; the way that youthful timidness, malleable and fragile with inexperience, ran contrary to their determination and their as-yet undeterred belief that they could be the most beautiful and successful models in a cutthroat industry. He knew how to sweet-talk them. How to wrap them around his little finger and pander to their dreams. Use their confidence to satisfy his own ends. He told himself that what he did was a kindness– that playing along with their delusions was better than telling them the truth. Better than telling them that they would be used and abused, and discarded the moment they were no longer relevant to whatever whimsy they’d initially satisfied.

Maybe that was why he'd set up this photoshoot. Maybe it was the guilt, or the tiredness with it all. Every time he pressed down the button on his camera, smiled wide and laughed with enough joyful abandon to seem convincing, he felt as if he were pulling a trigger. So many faceless young muses. So many forgotten names. So many nights spent in rented motel rooms, telling himself that what he was doing what something he was entitled to.

This one would be different.

Marty had been hearing his name for years. There wasn’t anyone in industry who hadn’t– anyone who traded in flesh, in beauty and youth, had heard of him.

Rustin Cohle.

He was a chameleon. Whatever the photographer or designer wanted, he would become. He could be dressed in a suit, impeccable and absolutely perfect. He could be knee-deep in jungle wilderness, shirtless and pulling off the whole Tarzan thing without even an inkling of irony. He could be arrogant, head inclined to the side, chin raised in rebellious defiance, leather jacket and mussed hair turning him into a bastardised version of James Dean. He could be reclined on a bed, arms thrown above his head, looking up at the camera with flushed cheeks and wide eyes.

Marty wanted to get his hands on him.

He wanted to see what the fuck was so special about this prick, and he wanted to discover something _new._ He felt drained by all these girls, all their innocence and their newness. And shit, Maggie was getting close to figuring him out– he needed a model he wouldn’t be interested in.

He did his research. He gathered Cohle’s photoshoots, pinned them to the wall above his desk, stood back with his arms crossed. He felt as if he was looking at a crowd of unrelated men, each with different lives and different histories. The frown at his forehead deepened the more he looked, and an unease settled into his gut. This guy was _good_ at what he did. Marty had known the man had to have at least been competent, because no one was a model at thirty years of age without doing something right– but this was something else. He felt like he was looking at a method actor. Someone who, every time he was hired, immersed himself deeply in a new narrative. A narrative that no one else could quite grasp.

That worried Marty.

He’d already booked the shoot, but now he’d have to rethink it. He had ensure he was in a position of power.

Sliding a pen behind his ear, Marty sighed thoughtfully and plucked a photograph off the wall. In it, Cohle was draped over a chair, legs spread, the fly of his grey denim jeans slightly undone. Shirtless, of course. One hand held a toothpick to his lips, fingers long and curling, and he was looking into the camera like he wanted to fuck the viewer. In any other circumstance it might’ve been a typical shoot. But there was something _more_ there. Something… different.

Marty smirked.

He knew just what to do.

 

***

 

The guy arrived fifteen minutes late, and Marty was enraged.

He opened his front door with a taut jaw and clenched teeth, already on the warpath. But, for some reason, when Marty saw him, he fell silent.

Cohle wasn’t carrying a bag, wasn’t holding anything in his hands. His arms hung by his sides, and he had his weight shifted onto one leg. The buttons of his shirt were undone down to his sternum, and his eyes were utterly unreadable, a cigarette between his lips. The lines of his face, the angle of his jaw and the smoothness of his cheekbones, seemed to taper down his entire body. He was absolute grace and elegance, from the curls of his hair down to the soles of his feet. The whole scene was entirely unorchestrated, but Marty felt a sudden desperation, fingers itching for a camera, as if he needed to capture the perfection of what stood before him. Cohle looked at him with dull expectation, as if bored, and _fuck,_ Marty had always liked a challenge.

“You’re late.” He said flatly, because he had to establish that he was the one in control. He’d never felt like he needed to make an effort before.

Cohle didn’t shrug, didn’t bother with any careless gestures. One hand drifted up to pull the cigarette from his lips, two fingers holding the gently smouldering paper like it was a blunt.

“Y’gonna let me in?” He asked, and Marty realised he’d been thirsting for this. Hungry for someone who would talk back.

He stepped away, let the door swing open, turning his back. A statement. A move on a chessboard that he had felt manifest the moment their eyes met.

“Close the fuckin’ door behind you. And don’t bring that filthy smoke up in here.”

 

***

 

He got Cohle into his studio, pointed to a bed he’d placed in the corner of the room. The mattress was draped in deep, luxuriously crimson silk, the fabric shining under the lights Marty had set up. The air was thick with perfume, and a pile of red roses waited on the white floor. A dramatic affair, which was what Marty intended. He wanted to make Cohle as uncomfortable as possible.

“Clothes off.”

Cohle looked at him, and Marty couldn’t catch even the smallest hint of fear in those strange eyes.

“I said clothes off. D’you want this job or not?”

Cohle didn’t pause again. He also didn’t speak.

He slid his jacket off his shoulders, not looking away. Marty leaned back against the wall, hooked his thumbs into his pockets and watched. This was always when the weaker models betrayed themselves. The fear, the nervousness, the fidgeting.

Rust undressed in a perfunctory, efficient manner. He tossed his clothes on the floor with an air of defiance that made something hot boil in Marty’s veins. He let his eyes roam Cohle’s body, and felt that invisible distinction start to blur. The line between artist and _man._

When Cohle bent over to pull his pants off, lifting his feet and folding his knees, Marty swallowed hard.

This had been a mistake.

Cohle stood when he was finished, clothes in a pile. He stared at Marty as if challenging him with his apathy, with his cold stare and with his body. He was just as relaxed and confident as he’d been on Marty’s doorstep. His hips were canted forward, torso lazily slouched, head tilted to the side slightly. The lights threw his brown body into sharp shadow, and Marty took his time. Looked at him. Scrutinised him. Tried to view him as just another model, when every atom in Marty’s body knew otherwise. He couldn't force his eyes to wander between Cohle's defined thighs.

“On the bed,” he murmured quietly, “on your back.”

Cohle turned on his bare feet, soles making quiet sounds against the cold floor. He lowered himself down, reclining far too leisurely for Marty's liking. He placed his hands on his stomach and waited.

“That the best you can do?”

A smile quirked Cohle’s mouth. Barely there, but Marty saw it.

“Get on with it.”

Cohle hummed quietly, the sound building in his throat like a purr, falling from his lips in a calm exhalation. He arched off the bed, lifting his arms above his head and moving his knuckles across the sheets. He shifted his hips and bent one knee, craned his head towards Marty, eyes fluttering closed with deliberate vanity. Lips parting, his face and body unfolding like a flower. Blooming. Hair falling down his face, a bared body surrounded by crimson silk. Marty couldn't help but compare him to the muses of the renaissance, those pretty boys with their emasculated strength and curls of perfect hair. Eternal and forever youthful. He briefly, dazedly, wondered if the comparison was egotistical; whether he was one of the masters in this scenario.

Marty felt his heart pound. His chest tighten.

_Shit._

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unBeta'd and probably full of mistakes, just fyi

“Alright. Don’t move.”

Marty kept his voice low. It’d been a while since he’d had to put on this much of a show; with the girls he was all grins and laughter, guiding them in front of the cameras with hands on their hips. This was different. Fuck, this was… this was _weird._

He approached the bed and felt some kind of fierce satisfaction when Cohle’s eyes remained closed, eyelashes long and curling. He considered the scene before him and stood as still as possible. Made himself invisible in his silence, disappearing from Cohle’s senses. This way, he was in control. He was the one taking charge. The one standing above the bed, looking down. The ploy worked; whether he was aware of it or not, Cohle stopped breathing. A subtle, quiet declaration of submission. Of apprehension.

It was only when Marty shifted his weight, deliberately letting fabric shift and make a hush of noise, that Cohle drew in a long, steady breath, his bare chest rising. Marty smiled.

Feeling satisfied that he’d established himself as the dominant male in the room, he broke the spell by walking around to one of the cameras, taking pleasure in the businesslike taps that his shoes made on the floor. How beautifully those sharp, professional noises contrasted with Rustin Cohle’s naked body. The fact of the matter was that– despite being a philanderer and an absolute child when it came to his personal life– Marty was good at what he did. He knew that the modelling profession depended on the balances of power. He convinced himself that he could manage this guy. Control him, reign him in, and stay assured of his own strength.

It was only because Cohle had his eyes closed that Marty was able to entertain such delusions. He didn’t want to think about the power that resided in that dangerously intelligent stare.

He stood beside the camera that was positioned beside the bed, tilted his head and considered the angle. He had several cameras positioned around the scene, all connected to a central computer, displayed on a small table; it was all Macs and digital programs, these days. Marty missed the old techniques, and had stubbornly refused to evolve with the times until Maggie had demanded that he stop being a pigheaded son of a bitch.

The flash filled the room. A violent burst of light.

“Don’t move,” Marty murmured again, just for good measure.

Cohle didn’t.

He took several more photos. Repositioned the cameras. Took some more. All the while, Cohle was as still as a statue. A sculpture of flesh and bone.

“Turn over. On your stomach.”

Cohle opened his eyes, and Marty looked away, cheeks warm. He didn’t know why this bastard’s gaze made him feel so small.

Cohle didn’t simply roll over, didn’t disturb the crimson sheets under him. He lifted his body off the mattress, rotating his hips and getting his knees under him, legs spread as he got balanced, and then lowered himself down. The sheets remained undisturbed, and Marty was frozen on the spot, eyes wide as Cohle reached down to adjust himself. Fuck, he was not used to working with male bodies.

He watched as Cohle drew up one knee, arched his chest into the bed so that the curve of his bare ass was enhanced. The small of his back must’ve ached, but he didn’t even tremble. He turned his head so that only half his face was against silk, and pressed cloying, curled fingers against his open mouth. Eyes closed, just like before, in an expression of obedience and vulnerability. He seemed so young, like this. So innocent. Shit, Marty was astounded by him; he could barely even associate the man before him with the sarcastic motherfucker who’d turned up fifteen minutes late and smoked a cigarette on his doorstep.

“This what you’re lookin’ for?”

Marty swallowed hard, glad Cohle hadn’t seen him flinch in surprise. “It’ll do for for now.”

He started taking photos, just so that he wouldn’t have to hear himself saying, _You’re perfect, you fucking asshole._

 

***

 

Modern digital photography felt like some kind of necessary ritual, a depersonalised obligation that Marty had to fulfil at the beginning of every shoot. He far preferred the more tactile side to his profession. Having an older camera in his hands, moving the models about as he wished, interacting with the world he intended to create. Maggie had always compared him to a child, in the sense that photography, for him, was about play. About touching and interacting. She didn’t know about the way his fingers slid over hipbones and his lips pressed against cheeks, tasting sweat and cheap perfume in darkened rooms– or maybe she did, he wasn’t sure. He knew less and less about her with every passing day. They’d met when he started working for her modelling agency, and gotten married less than a year later. They divorced three years down the line. Now she was just his boss and, somehow, it didn’t feel all that different to the years they had spent together trying to play house.

He kept his trysts a secret, and tried his hardest to make sure she wouldn’t find out. He wasn’t entirely certain why. He told himself that it was just professionalism, but he still couldn’t look at her without remembering their good days. He’d loved her, once. Failure weighed heavily on him when he bothered to think about it, and it seemed pathetic to seek comfort from girls so young. Like he needed someone to tell him how amazing his dick was, because he was so damn insecure.

Marty had hired Cohle because he wanted to prove to himself that he could work a model without needing to sleep with them. He’d looked at twice men before, and always justified it by thinking, _I’m a fucking artist. This is what artists do. We see the beauty in everything._

That logic didn’t seem to be working anymore.

When he was done with the digital photography, he reached for his film camera, looped the straps around his neck and unclipped the lens cover. Cohle heard him move, but didn’t flinch from his pose.

“You can relax,” Marty said, wishing his voice wasn’t so unsteady.

He watched the tension slide from Cohle’s shoulders, his hips rolling forward and pressing flat against the bed. One hand reached back to press against the small of his back, long fingers massaging skin. Marty wanted to ask if he was alright to continue, but couldn’t seem to summon the ability to speak. Those hands were so mesmerising that he wanted to do a shoot based entirely around them. Fingers curled around objects, knuckles taut and strong, veins beneath skin.

He busied himself with picking up the jar of paint he’d bought specially for this shoot, clearing his throat as he unscrewed the cap. Sleek sounds of fabric whispered through the air as Cohle turned over, laid on his back and placed his hands on his stomach again. Marty’s hands nearly fumbled when Cohle made a quiet noise, a deep pulse of sound from the bottom of his throat.

“I wanna try somethin’,” Marty held up the paint, “that good with you?”

Cohle’s eyes flickered over to him, and Marty held his stare, trying not to be distracted by the way the light caught on his eyelashes, made those blue irises glow. Cohle moved his shoulders minutely; a lazy approximation of a shrug.

“Nice of you to ask.”

Marty raised an eyebrow, ignoring how his stomach clenched at the rumble of Rust’s voice. He approached the bed, dipping his fingers into lukewarm paint.

“Put your hands by your sides,” Marty ordered. Cohle did.

Without hesitating, without thinking twice about what he was doing, he put his palm flat against Cohle’s sternum. He focussed on breathing, on keeping his composure as he swayed his wrist and smeared the paint across Cohle’s brown skin. It was gold, of course. Perfect for that sun-darkened tone.

He felt the curves of Cohle’s ribs, coating his fingers in gold and letting the colour drip, slide down and dampen the silken sheets under Cohle’s body. There was a luxuriousness about it, an overt decadence that Marty didn’t usually go in for. He let his touch glide and slither wherever the contours of Cohle’s body led him. His breath caught in his throat when he let his fingers wander down towards Cohle’s abdomen, leaving glimmering colour in their wake. It was all smooth skin and silky hairlessness; for whatever reason, Cohle had shaved for the photoshoot.

Marty immediately snatched his hand away, deciding instead to paint Cohle’s shoulder. His cheeks were burning. His heart was hammering so hard that his ears pounded, hot with his pulse. He slid his hand up onto Cohle’s neck, fingers against his jugular, thumb pressing gold over his oesophagus. Cohle’s tongue slowly wet his lips.

“I’m Marty, by the way,” he said, needing to alleviate the tension in the room, “everyone calls me Martin, but that’s too damn proper for me.”

Smalltalk. Oh, how far he had fallen.

Cohle smiled, his expression dry and flat; and it really wasn’t clear whether he was genuinely amused or not. Marty’s hand was still on his throat, paint slick and warm between their skin.

“Bit late for introductions, ain’t it?”

Marty pulled his hand away. “Don’t be an asshole.”

Cohle’s smile grew more genuine, his eyes softening as if he appreciated the candid nature of Marty’s rebuke.

“You can call me Rust.”

Marty nodded, poured some more paint onto his palm.

 _Rust,_ he thought to himself, _what a goddamn nickname._ The obscurity and the uniqueness of it seemed appropriate, somehow. Rust looked like some kind of Pagan offering, or maybe an Amazonian sacrifice. Gold curved with the shape of his body, curling around muscle and sinew. Marty stood back and wondered where to paint next. He felt like a voyeur to his own actions. He knew he shouldn’t be enjoying this so much.

He cupped a hand over Rust’s jaw, slid his palm up and down, dragged the heel of his hand over Rust’s mouth, up his cheek, and over his temple. An explosion of metallic brilliance over one side of Rust’s face.

“Why’d you hire me?”

The gold moved with Rust’s lips, and Marty shrugged.

“Wanted somethin’ new. Usually work in corporate fashion.”

Rust hummed quietly in response, and it was plain that he’d caught Marty’s lie.

“Why d’you ask?”

“Your reputation,” Rust replied easily, “coupled with the fact that I ain’t fuckin’ stupid.”

Marty blinked. His hand stilled against Rust’s forehead. “You wanna elaborate?”

“I’ve been in this goddamn industry for eleven years, I know every photographer there is. And I know you’ve slept with every model you’ve ever signed.”

“…Yeah, well, I ain’t signed you yet.” Marty replied, regretting the accidental insinuation behind his words the moment they left his mouth. “They were all _women_ ,” he clarified, blushing furiously.

“I wouldn’t say they were old enough to warrant being called ‘women’, Marty.”

Marty huffed out a shocked laugh, stunned that Rust dared to talk to him that way. His models were usually so polite that it was almost painful– but, then again, he supposed it made sense. Rust hadn’t been out of work for years, and he didn’t need to be signed with yet another agency or photographer just to pay next week’s rent. Which made Marty wonder why he’d accepted this shoot at all.

“Jesus, you’re a prick,” he said, almost impressed.

“I ain’t judgin’, man,” Rust murmured as Marty resumed painting him, “just curious ‘bout whether your motivations in gettin’ me here were-”

“What, that I wanna fuck you?”

Rust met Marty’s eyes calmly. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Marty pulled his hand away, shaking his head a little too violently. “No. No, I don’t want to- Shit, man, just shut up, will you? What the fuck.”

Rust let his gaze drift over to the ceiling, apparently unperturbed by the way Marty’s raised voice cut through the quiet of the room. He lay there in expectant silence, and Marty stood and stared at him, wishing he felt only disgust and reproach, wishing his face wasn’t heated by emotions he’d only ever felt when looking at female bodies.

Marty chewed on his cheek and continued perfecting the splash of gold across Rust’s face, if only to find a way to distract himself. He sharpened the line of paint along Rust’s cheekbone, and used the side of his thumb to blur the paint across Rust’s cheek, creating a sheen that glimmered in the light.

“Why’d you wait ‘till _now_ to ask?”

“Don’t care who sees me naked.” Rust replied quietly.

“Yeah, but…” Marty hardly needed to speak the words, _why let me touch you like this if you weren’t sure of my goddamn intentions,_ because the disbelief in his tone said everything.

“We’re all just meat, Marty,” Rust murmured, eyes suddenly unfocussing, becoming vacant and distracted, “I don’t identify with my body at all. It’s what ties my consciousness to this earth, and beyond that it’s just currency. Bought and sold, like any other commodity. I am merely the audience to my own existence.”

Marty’s eyes widened. “…What? You serious?”

Rust didn’t reply or explain, and that seemed answer enough. Marty slid his fingers over the tight muscle of Rust’s jaw, realised how close he was leaning to Rust’s face. Bowed over the bed.

“For a guy who doesn’t give a shit about his body, you sure take care of yourself.”

He wasn’t sure why he said the words. Wasn’t sure what he meant by them. He froze and thought, _shit, am I flirting with him?_

Rust didn’t seem to notice. Or, if he did, he didn’t care.

“Like I said, Marty,” he sighed, “it’s a commodity.”

He turned his head then, and their lips were so close that Marty felt a breath touch his skin. He jerked away, fingers clenching hard around the jar of paint he still held in his hand. Rust looked up at him with a completely blank face, eyes unreadable and emotions indecipherable.

"I think," Marty stepped away from the bed, "I think we're, uh, done. You ready for me to take these photos?"

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Rust had been a model since he was nineteen.

Initially, he’d just wanted to piss off his father. Do something effeminate, something that would enrage and disappoint his old man in equal measure– and maybe there was something cathartic about it too, about walking into a room with his head held high, everyone turning to look at him as if it was the middle of winter and he was the sun. He was nothing if not an opportunist, and he knew that he could make money off how he looked, if he was clever about it. He wore tight clothes and did everything his father hated, and built an empire on the strength of the lust in photographers’ eyes. Back in Alaska he had been the wild child, the neglected son of an alcoholic, living in a shack and hunting deer through the wasteland with a jagged knife. In the cities he was transformed. He was someone to be desired, someone to be treasured and adored. His face was splashed across glossy magazines, and fingers would stroke through his curly hair, voices whispering, _isn’t he beautiful?_

That was an eternity ago.

He was thirty years old, and he felt every year weighing on his back like an anvil. In his mind’s eye he was bent over, shaking with the strain of time, clutching at a future that was spiralling away from him, a gaggle of hands clawing at his feet. In the mirror he was still young; the very picture of masculinity, of strength. The world still salivated at the sight of his body, still threw money at him and pleaded for him on his knees, but all he wanted to do was run away. All he wanted to do was hide. He was having nightmares again. Nightmares about Claire, and about what had happened to her.

He’d woken up yesterday morning, sat up and lit a cigarette, gazing uncaringly around the ‘minimalist’ apartment that he hated. Every fucking motel around the world looked the same. This wasn’t a home, it was a prison. His _life_ was a prison. Fuck, he didn’t want to know anyone anymore. He didn’t want to go into the studio again, and drape himself over furniture while his manager crooned over him and told him how fantastic he looked. He hated fashion. He hated pointless, useless, stupid clutter. The superficiality of it all disgusted him, and he wondered far too often about the state of the human race, and the rate of youth suicides caused by the unrealistic expectations of body image that he was helping to perpetuate. He was drowning in a sea of plastic and fabric, the bodies of his fellow anorexic models sticking into him as he sank. The girls he modelled with, they looked like ostriches. All eyelashes and bone.

Rust didn’t know what else he could do with his life. He was stuck.

That morning, he’d risen from the bed, wandered over to his computer. Scrolled through the newest emails. One caught his eye; it was from Martin Hart. No agency name, no boasted claim of celebrity. The email contained a short, concise message, proposing a private photoshoot. Rust knew the photographer by name; one of those old-school designers, he recalled, both in method and in approach. A dirty old bastard that liked to get his hands on young models. Rust had always viewed such photographers with endearment and amusement, especially when he passed the age of twenty-six, and thence became an ‘older model’. Shit, the industry he was in was so fucked that the expiry date stamped on most models was eighteen years of age. With every passing day the magazines wanted younger, younger, younger. More clothes to sell, more revenue to secure. He wondered if Mr Hart came from another time, a time when fashion was more about artistry than it was about economy.

Rust had made some coffee, checked his schedule. Realised that Mr Hart’s shoot interrupted his pre-scheduled studio sitting.

He'd immediately emailed back and agreed.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

When they were done, Marty switched the overhead lights back on, immediately mourning the ambience of shadows and spotlights. Rust sat up, blinking, naked and drenched in gold like the physical embodiment of sin. His shoulders curled forward, hunching in on himself– and Marty was shocked to realise that he looked tired. The coy confidence that he’d flaunted during the shoot was gone, but the brash conviction from earlier was also absent. Rust blinked slowly, lethargically, like he hadn’t slept in a long time. Marty thought of what he’d said before. _We’re all just meat, Marty._

“You can shower before you head off, if you want,” Marty said, offering a smile and a soft tone, “I think these photos are gonna come out real good.”

Rust nodded, but he was still looking away to the side; avoidant and exhausted. He ran a hand through his hair, dragging gold-flecked curls off his forehead, and Marty couldn’t decipher his expression.

“I mean, you’re,” Marty cleared his throat and pretended to be fiddling with his camera, “You’re welcome to stay, I guess, as well. If you'd like.”

Rust’s hand fell into his lap. “Why would I do that?”

Marty shrugged. “I dunno. You kinda look like shit, is all.”

Rust turned his gaze on Marty, finally, and there was a flash of tired relief in his face, like he was comforted that someone was talking straight with him. Marty had seen it before; models that spent every moment of their lives being beautiful, being held up on a pedestal so high that they inevitably plummeted. No one was meant to be perfect all the time. Not even anyone as magnificent as Rustin Cohle.

“Listen, I’m gonna make some coffee, mess around with these images a bit and see how they come out. You ever actually seen anyone work on your shoots?”

“No. Can’t say that I have.” Rust replied in his quietly drawling tone, sitting still, not offering any superfluous gestures. He was motionless as a wild cat, patient as a loaded gun.

“Well, shit. Eleven years, and you ain’t ever seen what goes on behind the scenes?” Marty laughed. “Damn kids, y’all got no idea how much work we designers do.”

Amusement crept into Rust’s expression, tightening the edges of his eyes with a faint smile.

“I’m thirty years old, Marty.”

“Yeah, well,” Marty muttered, “you’re still a kid.”

 Rust considered that silently for a moment, and Marty really didn’t want to hear the words, _How old are you, then?,_ so he walked to a cupboard in the corner of the studio, fished out a white dressing gown. He threw it at Rust, who caught it and started to put it on.

“C’mon,” he said, trying not to think about how perfect Rust looked, gold glimmering against his brown skin, wrapped in white silk, “I’ll show you the goddamn shower.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Mr Hart’s– _Marty’s–_ apartment was in the middle of New York, a small open-plan place that boasted a cramped kitchen, a bedroom, a living room, and a larger room that had once been intended as the master bedroom but was instead decked out with full photographic studio equipment. There was an abundance of wooden surfaces and a seemingly random assortment of mismatched furniture– everything was at least thirty years old, and the cushions of one armchair were faded and discoloured. Obviously, it was Marty’s favoured chair. Books and photographs were littered around, haphazardly gathered into piles that suggested Marty gone to at least some effort to tidy the place before Rust arrived. Vintage polaroid cameras were dotted around, along with the occasional mug or notebook. Everything was softened by the haze of sunlight through wafting cream curtains.

Rust followed Marty through the house, glancing around as he held the silk dressing gown closed with one hand. He almost felt jealous. This place was a _home_ , no doubt about it. He thought of his apartment and the insipid whiteness that he woke up to every morning, and immediately decided the comparison didn’t swing in his favour. This place was easeful and welcoming, like a warm meal at the end of a winter day. Hearty. Full.

Then there was Marty. Rust had expected him to be a hardass, because that was often what older photographers were like– and, while Marty had greeted Rust with condescension bordering on contempt, Rust saw his attitude for what it was. A test. The animosity of his initial mood had quickly faded, once he’d gotten whatever grip he’d needed to have on the situation, and the speed at which he’d relaxed made Rust like him a great deal. He’d known a lot of men like Marty, throughout the years. Men who had a code and stuck to it, who tried to appear tough but often didn’t know how to keep up the charade. Old-fashioned men. He enjoyed the company of people like that; people who were utterly separate from the insincere, simpering babble that clung to high fashion like stinking shit. He liked honesty. He liked the authenticity of people who didn’t feel the need to constantly put on an act.

Funny, that Rust should crave his father’s ideology after running from it for so long.

“’Ere,” Marty said, leading Rust through the master bedroom and gesturing to the ensuite, “I’ll go get you a towel.”

Rust stepped into the tiled room, didn’t bother closing the door. He slipped the dressing gown off his shoulders, let it fall to the floor. It said something about him, he supposed, that he felt no discomfort with the idea of showering at a stranger’s home, letting someone he’d never met touch him the way he’d let Marty touch him.

“Here’s- uh,” Marty appeared in the doorway again, steps faltering when he saw that Rust was naked, “your towel.”

Rust took it from him, nodded his thanks. Marty stood there for a moment as if searching for something to say, but instead turned away, his stride notably hasty as he departed. Rust watched him go.

Marty’s clothes were plain and simple, but they fit him well. His powder blue suit shirt pulled comfortably across his shoulders, and was tucked into a pair of tan slacks that he’d tightened with a belt. His sleeves were rolled up, a scattering of fine blond hair peppering his forearms.

Rust was cynical, when it came to beauty. He didn’t believe that any of the models he worked with were beautiful, much less that he himself was. But there was just something about Marty, about the unique contrast created by his blazing blue eyes and his square jaw, that made Rust pause. The guy had to be fifty years old, at least, but Rust liked the way he moved. Liked his smile, liked the way his hands felt. There was a simpleness about him, an emotional honesty that Rust found comforting.

He cleared his throat and stepped into the shower, his cheeks warm as he remembered Marty's fingers on his throat.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Rust emerged from the shower, wrapped a towel around his waist for the sake of some kind of redundant propriety, and wandered out of the bathroom. As he passed through Marty’s bedroom he glanced around, noting the singular pillow set in the middle of the bed, and the pile of pulp novels stacked on the bedside table. Marty was a bachelor, then. Just like Rust had suspected.

He made his way back into the studio. The photoshoot bed was bare now, a white mattress surrounded by a lamps and cameras. He could see gold-stained silk peeking out of a bin beside the desk on the other side of the room, and the casual nature of discarding something so opulent contrasted jarringly with the rest of Marty’s home. Clearly, he had money– money that he chose not to spend on himself.

Rust chewed on that thought as he retrieved his clothes from the floor, dressing slowly and without the urgency of someone who was afraid of their own nakedness. Loneliness was something he was well accustomed with, but he’d never met anyone as content to be lonely as Martin Hart. There was a resignation in his manner, and a certain kind of serenity, a fulfilment that was so easily found in company. The way he’d smiled, looking down at Rust with bright amusement in his eyes, spoke of a man who could find pleasure in the small things. Rust envied that. He’d never been able to stop looking at the big picture long enough to be happy with what was right in front of him.

 _Maybe it’s age,_ he thought, pulling on his threadbare flannel shirt, _maybe I’ll cheer the fuck up once I pass forty._

He doubted it.

When he was done dressing, he returned the towel to the bathroom and then went searching for Marty. He found him on the balcony, bent over a glass table, reading glasses perched on his nose, photographs spread out in front of him. His blond hair was thinning from age, but Rust found, curiously, that he didn’t mind. He paused on the other side of the glass door, just watching. He wasn’t used to wanting. He didn’t care for company, and rejecting advances came as easily as breathing nowadays. He shrunk away from the world like it was poison, and isolation was where he found his comfort.

He didn’t know whether it was just his disillusionment with youth, or something more, but a force propelled him to pull open the balcony door– and the knowledge that he _wanted_ Marty’s company had a warm shiver of shock humming under his skin.

It took a great deal of effort to maintain a stony expression when Marty looked up with a wide grin.

“’Ey, Rust. You’re lookin’ all perked up from that shower, huh.” He gestured to one of the mugs that sat on the table, “Coffee’s still hot if you want it.”

Rust nodded in reply, took a seat on the remaining chair. He glanced down at the photos, and away again when he realised they were all pictures of him. He looked out over the balcony rail.

“View’s not bad.”

Marty snorted. “Yeah, if you like cities.”

“You don’t?” Rust asked, disturbed by his own efforts to be conversational.

“Nah. Used to own this lovely little place in Louisiana,” Marty sighed, holding a photograph up to the light, squinting at it, “had a lawn and everythin’.”

Rust tried to conjure a reply, but he wasn’t used to chatting, or to being actively involved in any kind of social interaction when cameras weren’t involved _._ Thankfully, Marty was frowning at the photograph, inspecting it closely and muttering under his breath about printing ink and _the cost of_ _bein’ a damn photographer these days,_ so Rust reached into the breast pocket of his flannel shirt and retrieved his cigarettes.

“You mind if I smoke?”

Marty made a face, but shrugged. “Go ahead. In my day everybody smoked, but now everyone’s all uppity about this cancer shit.”

Rust lit his cigarette, chuckled quietly around the paper between his lips. He thought he saw Marty glance at him, but by the time he looked up Marty had his attention fixed on the photograph again.

“Surprised they let you smoke, truth be told,” Marty muttered, “would’a thought you’d signed your soul away.”

Rust replaced the lighter and pack in his pocket, drew in a lungful of smoke and pulled the cigarette from his mouth, holding it between two fingers. He settled back into his chair and exhaled smoothly.

“No one _lets_ me do shit, Marty,” he replied, “I’m my own man.”

Marty laughed. “Think you might be in the wrong fuckin’ business, kid.”

Rust glared across the table. “Don’t call me kid.”

“I’ll call you what I like.” Marty grinned at him, his expression light and playful, and Rust looked away.

The lull in conversation was filled with the hum of traffic. The afternoon sun was starting to reflect of buildings, and Rust thought of the phone he’d left in his apartment– which would surely be erupting every minute with missed calls from his manager. The peacefulness of the balcony made him feel content. Relaxed. He liked knowing he was here, instead of in the studio.

“What about you, then, Marty? Huh?” Rust had another drag, breathing in deep, “Why’re you in this business?

“Why d’you ask it like that?”

“You seem like the kinda man destined for other things, is all.”

“Oh yeah?” Marty leaned back in his chair with yet another quiet laugh, pulling off his glasses and taking his coffee in hand. “And how can you tell that?”

“I’m good at reading people.”

Marty looked out over the balcony too, taking a sip of his coffee, and his smile dimmed to a more sombre expression. Rust watched him carefully, suddenly acutely aware that they were strangers.

“Used to be a cop.” He murmured, lowering the mug from his mouth and balancing it on his thigh, fingers cupping the ceramic curve. “Long time ago.”

“What happened?”

Marty glanced at him, and Rust held his stare. Eventually, Marty’s face softened, and a sadness crept into his expression that made Rust stiffen in his seat.

“…Caught a bad case. Real bad, got my partner killed on the job. And after I caught the guy, I thought… never again, y’know? I never wanna see anythin’ like that again. I never wanna _feel_ like that again.” Marty sucked in a sharp breath, let it out in a huff of embarrassed laughter. “Dunno why I’m tellin’ you this. Hell, maybe I’ve been alone too long.”

Rust didn’t reply, and a curious look crossed Marty’s face.

“Seems to me that you might understand what that feels like,” Marty hedged, “To see somethin’ like that. To be haunted by it.”

Rust didn’t reply to that either, because Marty was right. He picked up his coffee mug, had a sip, almost panicked by the unfamiliarity of someone asking him a personal question. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the nicotine that burned his throat and filled his mouth. Tried not to think of Claire. Tried not to picture her body when he’d found her.

“How’d you, uh,” Marty began, awkwardly changing the subject, “How’d you become a model, then?”

Rust lowered the mug from his face, swallowing hard, licking at his lips. He placed it down on the table, tried to shake himself from those memories. Had another drag of his cigarette, looking out over the railing. He was relieved to know that his hands were steady, not trembling like they often did when he thought of her.

“Never really knew what I was gonna do, even as a kid,” he replied eventually, voice quiet, “Got spotted by a scout when I was nineteen, figured, ‘why the fuck not’. Knew it’d piss off my dad.”

Marty chuckled. “That an aspiration of yours?”

“It was.”

“You two don’t get along?”

“We never really liked each other.”

“Don’t reckon fathers and sons are s’posed to get along, really,” Marty mused, “Your old man’s not supposed to coddle you. That’s a mom’s job.”

“Ain’t never had a mother.” Rust murmured.

“Well, shit,” Marty raised his eyebrows, “that had to have been rough, ‘specially if you didn’t get along with your pops.”

Rust shrugged. Marty took that as a response, and they sat in silence, drinking coffees and watching traffic crawl along below them. Rust felt a gentle wind ruffle his hair, and he drew a hand through it, feeling flecks of gold stick to his palm. He rubbed them off, and then brushed them from his thighs. Again, he thought he saw Marty glance at him. But he couldn’t be sure.

“You got… someplace to be tonight, or…?”

“Nah. Feel free to tell me to fuck off if you like, but,” Rust sighed around his cigarette, “kinda happy chillin’ here, if that’s good with you.”

“Yeah, sure,” Marty replied easily, “hell, you ain’t bad company.”

“Says somethin’ about my life though, don’t it?” Rust wondered aloud, “How transient it is. Goin’ from place to place, pretendin’ to be someone I’m not… and now I’m sittin’ on a stranger’s balcony, and I got no plans of my own.”

Marty fell silent at that. He didn’t speak for long enough that Rust glanced over at him, curious to know what he was thinking.

There was a strange look in Marty’s eyes. An intense kind of heat, an impulsivity that said he was about to do something, to lean across the table and press their lips together.

Then he looked away.

“You want me to show you some of these photographs or what?”

“…Yeah,” Rust replied hoarsely, as if he hadn’t seen the expression on Marty’s face, “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

 

***

 

He stayed until the sun was setting, finishing off his pack of cigarettes and listening to Marty tell him about the contrast between light and dark, the ways that film was developed and the techniques he’d used during the photoshoot. Eventually coffee was swapped out for beer, and Rust found himself relaxing, calming down in a way he hadn’t for a very long time.

As he was leaving, he paused on the doorstep, and when he turned back Marty had that look in his eyes again.

“My current contract prevents me from bein’ signed with any other photographer,” he said, heart hammering against his ribs, “but I reckon I’d like to do this again, Marty.”

Marty nodded, and it was obvious he knew what that meant. He knew that Rust had seen right through him.

“A’ight. You give me a call sometime, I’ll… I’ll be here.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

“What the fuck, Cohle!”

Rust clenched his jaw and ran his hands up his thighs, focussing on drawing in a slow, steady breath through his teeth. Quesada had his fists clenched by his sides, and was practically vibrating with fury, his round face pink with the effort that it took to restrain himself. It would’ve been funny if Rust didn’t know that Quesada was at the end of his tether, and would probably use this latest fuck-up as motivation for a fresh kind of torture. Rust wanted to say, _Come at me you fat fuck,_ wanted Quesada to snap just so he’d have a reason to punch him in the teeth. But he knew he had to play nice. Always, always playing nice. He looked up from his seat at Quesada’s desk and tried to express at least an impression of regret.

“Just calm down, boss-”

“Calm down? Calm down?! You decide to skip out on one of the most important shoots of this season– and now you’re telling me to _calm down?_ Fuck you!”

“C’mon,” Rust held out his hands, “I lost track of time-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Quesada snapped, “I don’t wanna fucking hear it!”

Rust dropped his hands, returned them to his thighs, rubbing his palms compulsively against denim. A slow, deliberate movement. Quesada took his silence to be some kind of admission of guilt, and had a seat. He had raised his chair higher than the others in his office in order to gain psychological advantage, a tip that he had undoubtedly extracted from one of the corporate ladder-climbing books displayed behind his desk. It was a fairly useless tactic, as Rust was more than a head taller than him and possessed at least twice his muscle mass, but Quesada seemed to think he had the upper hand anyway. Annoyingly, he did. Rust knew his entire career was in Quesada’s hands, and it never failed to make him seethe with anger and shame. His contract was solid for two more years, which meant he couldn’t escape without a damn good reason, like being grievously injured or suffering some kind of extreme illness.

Shooting himself in the foot suddenly seemed very tempting.

“I just can’t win with you, Cohle,” Quesada said, voice straining with long-suffering exhaustion as he folded his pudgy fingers on the desk, “Jesus Christ, every week it’s the same goddamn thing. Don’t know why the fuck I keep you here.”

Rust looked down at his shoes, displaying a false show of humility and regret. He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, cleared his throat and licked at his lips. When he looked up, Quesada’s face had softened, and it was almost pathetic how _easy_ it was to manipulate the motherfucker.

“We’ve got a show in two weeks. And you’re gonna be here every day, sun-up to sun-down. You get that?” Quesada’s tone had gone from furious to stern, and he nodded with an almost laughable seriousness. Rust wanted to tell him to loosen his tie, do some drugs, sleep with some strange women, and act in an irresponsible manner for the next few years.

Generally, Rust would hold his tongue. He’d nod, all pretty and inoffensive, and say, _Yeah, boss. Sorry._

But he thought of Marty. He thought of beer, laughter, a sun-lit balcony and the words, _I’d like to do this again,_ and suddenly couldn’t stand the thought of letting the opportunity slip away. He knew that Quesada would keep him on a leash so tight he’d probably spend every upcoming night in an onsite motel, leaving photoshoots, interviews and fittings only so he could sleep and eat. Someone always would be there to feed him, clothe him, and do his makeup, and he would not have one single second to himself.

“Boss, I’ve got plans,” he began, watching Quesada’s face twitch when he realised a request was forthcoming, “Maybe if we could work out some kind of schedule-”

“Are you even _listening_ to me?” Quesada demanded, surging up out of his chair and throwing his hands up in the air, face returning to its ruddy shade of anger, “ _Fuck_ your plans! For a guy who’s been doing this as long as you have, you really don’t seem to get how this works!” He pointed a finger threateningly at Rust, who closed his eyes briefly and realised he had no option other than surrender left. “I _own_ you, Cohle! If I say jump, you better ask how fucking high! And if I tell you you’re gonna be here until I say you can leave, you _stay where I tell you to stay!”_

Rust nodded, feeling tired and defeated, angry and humiliated. He stood, and didn’t meet Quesada’s eyes as he turned away.

“Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. And go talk to your fucking manager!”

Rust slammed the office door behind him.

 

***

 

When he was done listening to Ginger admonish him with a slyness that revealed the perverse excitement he got out of telling people what to do, Rust went down to his dressing room, where he found Johnny Joanie calmly redoing his own makeup.

“Oh, honey,” Johnny pouted, put down his brushes and turned to greet Rust with a kiss on the cheek, “you look exhausted. I heard Quesada yellin’ at you an’ all.”

“Think the whole fuckin’ world heard.” Rust muttered as he fell into a chair, rubbing at his eyes. Johnny gently pulled his hands away from his face, quietly reminding him not to ‘stain the canvas, darling’. Rust sat back, some of the tension easing out of his body. Johnny was one of the few people he could stand in this shithole. He smarter than he let on, and– while he saw everything, and was privy to almost everyone’s secrets– he very carefully negotiated the complexities of working in an industry based on pride and ego. He was dressed in flowing shades of yellow today, black hair piled on top of his head and secured with jewel-adorned pins. He wore what he liked and didn’t pretend for anyone, and Rust could appreciate that.

“’Least Ginger ain’t mad at you,” Johnny drawled lightly as he gathered Rust’s hair back into a headband, “He ain’t ever mad at you.”

“Yeah, that’s what makes him so fuckin’ creepy,” Rust muttered.

Johnny laughed and patted Rust on the head once the headband was in place. Somehow, the action didn’t seem condescending. Johnny could get away with a lot more than Rust usually tolerated from others.

“You just hang on there, baby,” he crooned, “Ginger ain’t bad. I’ve seen worse.”

Rust didn’t reply because, while Johnny was probably right, Rust hated Ginger. He hated Quesada. He hated all of them, and he didn’t know how he’d make it to the end of this year, let alone the next. He watched his reflection in the mirror, feeling an intense swell of hopelessness, and thought about sending Marty another email. But what would he say? _Sorry, my boss hates me and I’m a complete pussy, so I can’t come to your house and…_ And what? Shit, he’d gotten a read off Marty that said he was interested, but the guy was a total stranger, and Rust couldn’t just go ahead and assume his intentions. And certainly not in a goddamn _email._

“Somethin’ on your mind?” Johnny asked carefully, leaning past Rust to pick up a makeup brush and a palette.

Rust looked away from his reflection, fixed his stare on the edge of the mirror. He figured that there was no need forcing himself to look into his own eyes when his opinion regarding his appearance didn’t matter anyway.

“…Had a nice day, yesterday.” He replied quietly. “Don’t often have nice days.”

“Ooh,” Johnny leaned against the back of Rust’s chair, eyes bright with curiosity, a smile tilting up the corner of his mouth, “and who, pray tell,  _are_ they?”

Rust raised an eyebrow at Johnny in the mirror.

“What? I’d say ‘who was _she’,_ but I don’t wanna assume.” Johnny waved a brush through the air, flourishing his hand dramatically, in total confidence of his instincts. Rust had to admit he was damn good at reading between the lines. “What did you do? Get laid? Go on a _date?”_

“No, nothin’ like that.”

Johnny’s smirk turned into a grin as his suspicions were confirmed. But Rust looked away, swallowing hard, and Johnny sighed, disappointed at being denied valuable gossip but obviously aware there was a boundary he wasn’t allowed to cross.

“Well a’right baby, I won’t ask. Know how much you value your privacy. But you know you can trust me, yeah?”

Rust wanted to laugh. _Yeah, Johnny,_ he thought, _I fucking know that. You’re my only friend in this goddamn place, and without you I’d probably have beaten the shit out of someone by now._

“Sure,” he replied instead.

Johnny smiled in a way that said he knew exactly what Rust couldn’t say aloud.

“Now we’re done chattin’, how ‘bout I get started. Tip up your chin for me, honey? That’s a good boy.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, probably won't update for a while, due to my recovery and some personal stuff I have to deal with... I'll try to find the time, but I can't make any promises. If I need to relax, I might write, but otherwise updating might be difficult. (At the very least, expect sporadic updates.)  
> Thanks so much for reading, and for all your comments and kudos so far <3 It really helps.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to manage smaller chapters <3 thank you, everyone, for your support.  
> Writing this fic is a really good way to relax... so, while I'm probably physically not up for it (due to the stage I'm at in my recovery) I do want to keep updating regardless of what the doctors say lmao. I'll see if I can work a weekly schedule out or something.  
> Anyway! Please enjoy this latest chapter!!

She had her fingers spread over her milky white thighs, knees together in an expression of false shyness, lips parted with the classic _tantalising but not too slutty_ expression, shiny with nude lipstick. Despite the revealing underwear and cream cardigan that left very little to the imagination, she still managed to look like a little girl, like an innocent flower waiting to be shown the ways of the world, perched on the edge of the stool like a bird. And maybe that was the most disturbing part of it all; the nymph-like innocence, the childlike coyness clashing disturbingly with the swell of her false breasts. Marty wanted to turn away from her, wanted to end this cycle, wanted to tell her to eat more and that she didn’t need prominent ribs showing through her skin in order to be beautiful. He wanted to tell her that her eyes were the colour of an early morning summer sky, and that her laugh sounded like heaven. He wanted to say, _you’re enough just being who you are,_ and he wanted to save her from all this. He wanted to save her from men like him. From the world.

But he didn’t. He took his pictures, and he did what he was paid to do.

When he was done, Marty turned away from Lisa and set his camera down on his studio table. He didn’t need to tell her that the shoot was finished; she did what she was told so often that instructions didn’t need to be said aloud in order to be understood. He heard her slide off the stool smoothly. He dismantled his camera, focussing on the trivial task with a determination so desperate that it felt like denial. Only a month ago, at their last photoshoot, he’d taken her right here, on the floor. Gripped her fragile hips hard enough to bruise, hated himself more and more every time she moaned and gasped. There was a violence about it, sleeping with someone so vulnerable. Like it was wrong, even though she was well above eighteen.

Marty tried to console himself with the knowledge that he’d only ever slept with models that were over twenty. That reasoning had started failing him when he turned fifty.

“Is there… anything else I can do for you?”

Her voice was lilting and mischievous, and he closed his eyes, repulsed shame twisting his face into a bitter parody of his usual disposition. There was some relief in knowing he didn’t feel turned on by her anymore. He was too disgusted to be tempted.

“No, Lisa,” he sighed, “not today.”

 _Not ever,_ he thought, stiffening as her arms wound their way around his waist. She pressed up against him, turning her cheek against his shoulder, and he hated her body, hated himself for ever using her the way that he had. Just another photographer perpetuating the age-old tradition of prostituting models, telling young women that they were only worth something if they used their bodies to achieve what they aspired to.

“Stop it.”

She went still, then pulled away. “Found someone younger? Prettier? Is that why you don’t want me?”

He wished he could be angry at the petulant pain in her voice, but he couldn’t find the energy. It wasn’t her fault that she’d been conditioned to think this was how the game was played. Shit, this _was_ how the game was played. This was her wild card. Her career advantage, warm between her legs.

“No, that’s not…” he heard the exhaustion in his own voice, and he turned to her, chest aching when he saw the hurt in her bright eyes, “I ain’t doin’ that anymore, okay? It’s not you.”

She didn’t believe him, that much was obvious. She turned away, posture rigid and forced; a display of pride that she couldn’t quite pull off. She was too brittle, too fragile, as if she’d shatter when someone touched her. He looked back down at his camera when she pulled off the cardigan and underwear set, though he’d seen it all before. She was so thin. Every curve of her body was marred by the points of bone under skin, and her large breasts seemed out of place, hanging off her ribcage. He tried to picture Lisa as a child. Tried to imagine what she had looked like before all this.

“You can… stay. If you like.” He offered weakly, feeling so guilty that he could hardly stand it, “We could… talk.”

She straightened up, pulling a loose dress over her head, tugging it down to her knees. It was black, as if her life was a funeral and she was already in mourning. She swept hair off her face, jerking her head to the side and flipping dyed-brown waves over her shoulder. The vulnerability was gone now that she was clothed, and the cool confidence that had won her a place in modelling was back. She looked at him with those shining, owlish eyes, face plump with a prettiness he knew was at least partially plastic.

“Talk? About what?”

Marty shrugged. “I dunno. Anythin', I s'pose. That’s generally what happens, ain’t it, when two people have a conversation?”

She tipped her chin up into the air, eyes narrowing, gaze moving up and down him with condescending judgement– he knew that she was deliberately trying to make him feel small, make him feel ugly and old. He resented the fact that it worked.

“…We’ve never _talked,_ Marty. That’s not what we do.” Her voice had slowed and her tone had deepened; a teacher talking to her wilful pupil, now, no longer the shy little virgin girl. The skill of her acting only served to make her seem even more damaged in Marty’s eyes, but he was hurt. He wanted to interact with a human, an actual _person,_ not have to wade through the layers of bullshit and deception.

He thought, for the hundredth time that week, of Rust. He’d been waiting for him to call with an eagerness that had diminished with every passing day, replaced by embarrassment.

 _As if he’d be interested in you, old man,_ he thought, _shit, you could nearly be his father._

Maybe that was why Lisa’s words made him so angry.

“What, so,” he set his camera down on the table, laughed humourlessly, “I was just a fuckbuddy for you, huh? Just a way to get off?”

Her eyes widened, skinny hands tightening into fists by her thighs. Her thin frame grew rigid with anger, and somehow he couldn’t take pleasure from her resentment. He was so tired of fighting. He’d spent his whole life playing these games.

“That’s rich, coming from you!” She hissed, voice sharp, “How dare you-”

“No, no, I’m,” he held out two hands, “I’m sorry, Lisa, I’m… I didn’t mean it, okay? I’m sorry. That was… wrong of me, to say that.”

She curled her lips up into a sneer, but didn’t walk away.

“I don’t want to start a fight,” he continued, voice strained with desperation, “I just… I could use some company, y’know?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her expression slackened, mouth parting in shock, and the pitying sympathy in her eyes was far worse than the deliberate condescension of before. He knew he’d just revealed too much of his loneliness to her– and the pain must’ve shown on his face, because her eyebrows drew into a tight frown, an apology on her lips.

“Marty…”

“Maybe you should just go, yeah,” Marty turned away from her, too hasty to appear calm, “I’ve got some work to do, and I know you’re a busy young lady n’ all.”

He heard her take a tentative step towards him. “Marty-”

“Just go,” he repeated, voice trembling a little, “I don’t want your goddamn pity, Lisa. Get out. You’ll get your paycheck tomorrow.”

She hesitated for a moment, and then left without saying anything more. _Thank fuck for small miracles,_ he thought, hiding his face in his hands and trying as hard as he could to stop the hot prickling feeling beneath his eyelids. He sniffed and wiped at his eyes.

Marty had been dreaming of brown skin and hooded eyes all week, seduced by the enigmatic stranger that had shown up on his doorstep, laid so perfectly down on that bed, and relaxed beside Marty as if they’d been friends for years. Fuck. All he wanted was someone who would calm down in his company, someone who wanted to spend time with him as much as he wanted to spend time with them. And Rust seemed so _alive,_ so raw and emotional, barely containing his mysterious sorrows beneath a smokescreen of apathy and sarcastic intelligence. He was young, damaged, and all the more unimaginably beautiful for the private carnage that had been wreaked beneath his skin– and Marty wanted nothing more to touch that skin. To taste him, to kiss him, to understand his story and to turn it into something good. He sensed a lack about Rustin Cohle. An absence.

And he wanted to fill it.

Marty had seen the brightness in Rust’s usually deadened eyes, had seen those small smiles and those hesitant breaths of laughter– he wanted to be the reason for such small moments of happiness. Rust was a stranger, yes, but that didn't matter to Marty; he was used to leaving his mark on strangers' lives. But this time, he wanted his actions to render some kind of gentle permanence, wanted to leave a blossoming impression on this wounded man, inspire a change for the better.

He wanted his hands to be instruments of healing. Not weapons of intimate destruction.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

Rust came home from the photoshoot like he was on his way to the firing squad. The saying _between a rock and a hard place_ would’ve been apt; he was fleeing from the too-bright claustrophobia of a manufactured reality, light spots still dancing in his eyes from the cameras, and running headfirst towards yet another night of darkness so heavy and tangible it would hold him down and sink into his body, filling him with a toxicity and apathy so vile it would keep him from moving until morning. He would wake with a dry mouth and probably a hangover, sunlight corroding his rotten body. The depression would recede for a little while, only to be startled back into life by the pressure of posing as a living doll.

He wasn’t sure why night was always the worst time. Maybe it was because he lived alone. What was it that Nietzsche had said? _To live alone one must be either a beast or a god. Leaving out the third case: one must be both- a philosopher._

Yeah. Rust thought that summed him up pretty well.

He’d stopped off at a bar on the way back to his apartment, glad that Quesada was at least letting him live out of his own home during the pre-show frenzy that had overtaken his nightmare of a life. That meant he could go and get a load off properly, without some lackey waiting to escort him back to his hotel room, or the inevitable ‘gift’ from his manager Ginger– usually in the form of a prostitute that was barely over the age of eighteen. Ginger was a special kind of unhinged, and all his models knew it. His hands always lingered too long on Rust whenever they touched. While he hadn’t tried anything yet, Rust knew the day would eventually come.

He was property. The industry owned him, and they sold him when they knew it would bring in profit. They sold his smile and his false laughter, his body and his mind, his very soul. Even if he’d never actually let someone fuck him, he knew what he was. He was a model. And when a model walks into a room, all everyone wants to know is, _Who’re they fucking?_

He’d once been proud of the fact that he hadn’t ever needed to use sex as an advantage. Pride was nothing but a dream now.

Tonight he’d started off with beers in the bar, cold going down his throat but settling into his stomach with the warmth of good, solid alcohol. It kept him going, propelled him into a state of wakefulness, enough that he ordered four more before moving onto spirits. Beside him, a group of friends had sung drunkenly along to a song he hadn’t known, and he’d swayed with their wailing tune, the disharmony and heat enveloping him in a blanket of comfortable anonymity. He’d imagined they were his friends. He’d imagined he had a different life.

 _I’m safe,_ he’d thought, _I’m safe here._

Somewhere during the haze of the night the corners of the room had bled into the walls. Everything was cleaner and clearer, and he smiled, thinking, _I’ll never stop drinking, I’ll never stop._

It felt good.

 

***

 

He left the bar, fumbling tips into the bartender’s hands and waving vaguely at them when they suggested calling a taxi. Then things started to get not so good. He stumbled along for a few blocks with the aimless determination of someone unaware of their own intoxication, on a quest for god and for his apartment. He saw an elderly couple approaching him, their eyes widening with fear as he came closer. He laughed like a maniac and they darted around him, hurrying off. He planted his feet on the concrete, feeling powerful, feeling strong– he threw back his head and kept laughing, until his throat was sore and his eyes were wet, arms held out by his sides.

 _Come on,_ he thought, eyes cast upwards as he blindly searched the murky city sky for any hint of the stars, _Come on, take a shot. Strike me down with lightning, you elusive fuck._

“Come _on!_ What the fuck’re you waiting for?!”

His voice was hoarse and too loud. The force of it propelled him to the side, staggering, and then all the alcohol he’d consumed was pouring out of him. Vomit landed in splatters by his feet. He lurched away from it, wiping his mouth, his spare hand instinctively patting down his jacket in search of cigarettes.

Just a normal night.

 

***

 

He felt slightly more sober by the time he returned home. He leaned against the sleek elevator wall, glass and metal too pristine to provide any kind of welcoming embrace. His apartment, when he managed to lumber into it, was equally as cold and clinical. He escaped his clothes in a mess of limbs, cursing as he tore at fabric and zips. High end fashion was fucking stupid. Nothing fit properly, nothing worked. He threw the clothes away, even making sure to discard the satin briefs that Ginger had felt it necessary to insist he wear, and then dived towards the heavenly pile of clothes that waited on his bed. A worn-out flannelette shirt, the sleeves permanently creased from being rolled up, and a pair of blue jeans that had been softened from years of use. He pulled them on and then washed his face, scrubbing at his skin with a bar of brand-less soap. He washed away the celebrity lies and the falsehood of fame, and– despite the acidic taste in his mouth– felt marginally better.

With a face still damp with warm water and soap, hair hanging in his eyes, Rust poured himself a glass of whiskey and made his slow, sluggish way over to the chair that sat in its post by the window. Since he’d developed this nightly habit, it hadn’t moved.

He fell into it and got comfortable.

His apartment had floor-to-ceiling windows, and he was afforded a view of New York in all its sprawling glory, lights and buildings overflowing from the maze of movement like a teetering, unsteady structure on the verge of collapse. Civilisation, from this vantage point, was nothing more than the crawling of four-legged ants on the Earth's surface. Beneath Rust, made soundless and surreal by the distance, was a highway. He sipped at his whiskey and watched the cars. His flatscreen television was caked with dust; this was what he did when he was alone. This was his hobby.

Sonder.

Every car contained at least one person. A person he would never meet. That person would have a family, would have a history, would have feelings and views and fears and an view of the world he could never fully understand, even if he could somehow stop time and speak to them. Every car was within his sight for no more than a blip of a second, there and then gone, as if the people contained within those moving hunks of metal had never existed. And, in a way, they never had. He would never meet the people in those cars. He would never know them. If he did, they would meet as strangers. He was certain that all beauty really did exist in being dead and gone.

Rust watched the lights. Watched the traffic. Submerged himself in the silence.

He always surfaced from this ritual with a different opinion. A different epiphany. Sometimes he would feel too tired for it all, and would simply fall into bed– other nights, he would meditate on the emptiness of it all, the solitude of living a life surrounded by so many other lives. The extreme irrelevance of any one life in the midst of such _movement._ He would drink until he couldn’t think anymore, until the bones of his hands felt like piano keys straining under skin, and his glass would tumble from his fingers. Sometimes it smashed. Sometimes it just bounced, and he would feel oddly disappointed.

But tonight, something new happened.

Rust’s phone rang.

Yanked from his routine melancholy by the sudden burst of noise, he flinched, eyes widening. The alcohol-soaked machine of his body went into overdrive, his heart sprinting, and he froze still before realising what was happening. He breathed out a stuttering sigh, pulling his phone from his pocket with clumsy fingers. The numbers were displayed on the screen, no caller ID. He scrutinised them, but couldn’t remember where he’d seen this number before. Well aware that he was too drunk to hold a conversation, but drunk enough not to care, he swiped right and held the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

_“…Rust?”_

“Who the fuck’s this?” Rust asked, not in the mood for prank calls or anything remotely related to business. “It’s one in the morning, you depraved shithead.”

_“It’s… Marty. Martin Hart, the photographer?”_

An embarrassed laugh hummed down the phone, and Rust finally felt his heart settling into a normal rhythm, his fingers loosening around his glass. He heard the tired slur of Marty’s voice and recognised a kindred spirit.

“Yeah. Yeah, ‘course.” Rust mumbled, had another sip of his whiskey. “I ain’t forgotten you, Marty.”

 _“Well, that’s nice,”_ Marty said, sounding genuinely pleased, once again stunning Rust with his boundless ability to be easily cheered, _“Why haven’t you called then?”_

Rust let a sigh tumble from him, felt himself ease into his seat. Marty didn’t sound angry. He just sounded curious. Shit, Rust hadn’t had a proper conversation with someone for so long, he felt like a deranged man on a desert island and Marty was like a fucking angel sent just to preserve his sanity.

“Quesada’s workin’ me down to the bone.”

_“Could’a called and told me that.”_

“What, ‘cause I owe you somethin’?” He tipped his head forward with a tired groan, skull too heavy for his neck.

There was a pause.

_“…You okay, Rust?”_

Rust gazed ahead into nothing. It’d been a long time since someone asked him that. He didn’t know what to do with the concern in Marty’s voice.

“Why’re you callin’ so late, Marty?”

_“…Been drinkin’.”_

Rust imagined Marty sitting in his warm house, wondered whether he was on that well-loved armchair. Wondered whether he was in bed, propelled to call because that pile of pulp novels couldn’t sate his loneliness. And Rust understood him. He understood this.

“And you thought of me?”

Marty scoffed. _“Gimme a break-”_

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

Silence. Rust rolled his lip under his teeth, and listened to the quiet whisper of static, the hush of sound as Marty took a breath. He felt a flutter in his chest, something that cut through the stupor of the alcohol.

Marty was quiet for long enough that Rust nearly asked whether he was still there.

“…Got a show comin’ up. You should…” Rust hesitated, cleared his throat, wishing he could see Marty’s expression, “You should come. I’ll need someone t’keep me sane after that bullshit.”

Marty laughed, a relieved desperation colouring his voice. Rust could tell he appreciated the humour.

_“Sure, Rust.”_

Rust felt a smile touch his lips, disappearing the moment he realised it was appearing. He gazed down at the traffic again.

“You ever wonder about the universe, Marty? About chance?”

_“What d’you mean?”_

Rust knew he shouldn’t tell Marty this. He knew he should keep this to himself, and not scare Marty away with the late-night alcoholic philosophies of a lonely man.

But he was too far gone to think twice.

“I’d say you’ve got about as much chance of finding happiness with a complete stranger as you do with someone you’ve known your whole life. You can’t lay no claims upon nothin’ that strays into a path you chance upon, and maybe that’s the fuckin’ secret. Acceptin’ that we ain’t got no right to any of this.” He had a sip of whiskey, closed his eyes, let the burn sweep over his tongue and dance down his throat. “So many lives, Marty. Clashin’ and entwinin’, all random, all unplanned. Do you ever think about the scope of it? The _size_ of it? Every time I pass someone on the street, I look at their face and I wonder… who could they be to me? Who are they to me in another life? In a world where this all plays out differently?”

_“You, uh… believe in reincarnation?”_

“I believe it’s all set. Everythin’ we’ve ever done, everythin’ we ever will do. A circle of static actions.” He swayed in his seat, wished Marty was there to put a hand on the back of his neck and hold him steady, “Everythin’s already happened, Marty. We just didn’t notice.”

 _“Well, that,”_ Marty took a slow breath, like he was trying to figure out how to respond, and Rust heard the rustle of sheets, _“that’s interestin’.”_

“You don’t believe me.”

_“Well, it’s not that I don’t believe you, Rust-”_

 “So you don’t feel like we’ve had this conversation before? Your voice, Marty…” Rust drained the last of his whiskey, whispering now, “feel like I’ve heard it before. Feel like we’ve already said all these words, someplace else, in some other time.”

Marty didn’t respond.

“You do.” Rust opened his eyes, staring at his reflection, seeing a manic man, more life in his wide stare than he’d felt in years. “You feel it too. Don’t you?”

_“I.. I guess. But… that’s what they call déjà vu, I reckon.”_

Rust watched himself in the window, aware that isolation had driven him more than a little insane, feeling a spark in his gut as he imagined that Marty felt the same way he did. This strange sense of familiarity, this alien comfort, humming through his veins. He lowered his glass to the floor, ran a hand through his hair and craved a cigarette.

_“So, you… You don’t believe you can change your future. That it’s all set.”_

“Yeah.”

_“How’s that?”_

“It’s all outta my hands, Marty. Whatever happens, the course of my life will march on until it ain’t marchin’ no more. And I’ll have no say in how it plays out.”

_“Sounds to me like you’ve convinced yourself it’s all gonna end badly. But if it’s outta your hands, how can you know that’s the way it’ll go?”_

Rust blinked. He’d never really considered that.

_“And if it’s gonna turn out however it wants anyway… why not just enjoy the ride?”_

Marty made it sound so simple. His voice was light and easy, and Rust wanted to fall into his words, relax into the contented self-confidence that Marty seemed to offer so freely. He wished he could pull Marty against him and find the secret to contentment in the taste of his mouth.

_“…Rust? You there?”_

“I’ll get you an invite to the show.” Rust replied, his voice sounding small and far away, “G’night, Marty.”

He hung up.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Marty stared groggily at the dimming phone screen. His throat was tight and his face was warm. He leaned back, felt his legs part and his eyes flutter closed, the loneliness of an empty bed powerless in the face of what he was feeling. He was surely too tired and too drunk to rub one out, but fuck, the drawling hum of Rust’s voice had almost been as amazing as the silence. The sound of breathing, the mutual acknowledgement of where this was heading.

He wondered if they would sleep together. If he would have the courage to touch Rust like that.

“Shit,” he breathed, “what the fuck am I doing?”

He dropped his phone onto the mattress and slumped back against the pillows, hand pressed against his stomach. Fingers brushing the waistband of old, faded pyjama shorts, listening to the familiar creaking of his home as if it could answer him.

Marty was used to attraction. He was used to sex, and he was used to getting what– and who– he wanted. The fact that Rust was a man didn’t seem to stun him as much as he’d have thought; it was as if he was swept up in something bigger, something far more intense than politics or outdated societal values. The thing that made his body flush with an inexplicable heat, caused his muscles tighten with unconscious anxiety, was that… he _needed_ Rust.

His hand wandered downwards, tentative and uncertain. He arched up into his own touch, eyes falling closed as he pictured long fingers, younger hands. Imagined licking into Rust's mouth, humming against him, mingled breaths and hurried movements and accidental gasps of noise, Rust lifting his thighs and kissing him, hands under Marty's knees as he moved with as much gentleness as he could muster. Marty wondered whether it would hurt. He wanted it to hurt, at least a little. He wanted the  _realness_ of it, the physicality, to be touched by Rust without hesitation or reluctance.

There was something pulling at Marty. An invisible force, propelling him towards Rust– like their own kind of gravity, at odds with the planet that they lived on. Their own magnetic pull. He felt it as he lifted his knuckles to his mouth, whimpering quietly, hushed noises yanked from his throat like never before. It was warm, this feeling. This yearning. It was apart from him, an outside force, and he almost felt that he should be afraid.

But he remembered what Rust had said.

_You feel it too. Don’t you?_

He bit down into his skin, breathed hard, hand moving faster. He couldn’t even try to convince himself that this was just a product of his loneliness, because it was something more. And hearing Rust say those words, hearing him whisper like it was a confession, a sacred revelation…

Marty was on the precipice of something, he knew that for sure.

And he couldn’t walk away now.

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Maggie knocked on Marty’s door. Hard.

She’d been waiting on his doorstep for at least ten minutes, which was ten minutes that she did not have to spare. Yesterday’s photoshoot with Lisa Tragnetti was supposed to be ready for a client, a meeting that was scheduled for midday. Maggie knew she’d be late.

“Marty!” She yelled, resolve cracking, the fissures in her patience having been deepened by Marty’s years of recklessness and unprofessionalism. She kept him on as a photographer because, all his faults aside, he was good at what he did. And she was a respectable businesswoman, if nothing else, and knew talent when she saw it. She’d built her business from the ground up, and would be damned if its downfall was due to the fact that Marty couldn’t get his ass out of bed when she needed him to.

She raised her hand, and was starting to swing it towards the door when it suddenly opened. Marty flinched in surprise, hangover-dulled eyes fixing on her palm with an aborted sense of alarm.

“Well,” he mumbled, scratching at his mess of blond bed-hair, “good mornin’ to you too, Maggie.”

“You smell like a brewery,” she admonished him sharply.

He shrugged, face heavy with a gloom that suggested he had a great deal on his mind. Maggie felt a twinge of concern, but buried it under reason and logic. Marty’s private life wasn’t her business, not anymore. _Business_ was her business.

“Are the photographs ready?”

“Yeah, come on in. I’ll make you a coffee.”

She crossed into his threshold reluctantly, pulling a faded blue scarf from around her neck. Her heels made sharp noises against his wooden floor, and she winced in sympathy when Marty blinked hard, his alcohol-addled mind pierced by such loud and harsh sounds. With a frustrated sigh, she reached down and pulled them off. He smiled tiredly, and she felt– for a moment– a swell of something that may have been regret, or yearning. Melancholy for the smile she’d fallen in love with, the liveliness that been dulled by loneliness and too much drinking. She wanted to ask if he was seeing anyone, but she already knew that he probably was. She’d known he was seeing someone when they were _married_.

“Show me the pictures, Marty.”

He nodded, turned on bare feet, and started to shuffle off. She followed with a barely-disguised impatience, feeling twitchy and rushed. She’d spent the morning stuck in traffic, which was enough to make anyone edgy– not to mention her impending deadline.

The studio, when they finally arrived, was a mess. Like Marty had experienced one of his frustrated nights, tried to set up a private photoshoot and failed, ending up with a big mess of props and clothes scattered about the room, and no results. Maggie didn’t comment, and instead accompanied him to his desk.

“Here’s the portfolio,” he handed her a folder, and she switched her heels to her other hand before taking it, “came out pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

She ignored his self-congratulation, flipping through the images and trying not to think too hard about whether Marty had slept with Lisa or not. It was difficult; this shoot had called for a sexualised angle, which– while being fairly typical of an underwear sale– made Maggie cringe as she imagined Marty behind the camera.

“What was the GSM?” She thumbed one of the images.

“Over three hundred.” He turned away from her, leaned against the desk as he crossed his arms. “Glossy, Nano-pore technology. Got it printed yesterday.”

She closed the book, tucked it under her arm, and couldn’t help but grin when she heard the boredom in his voice. “You still like those polaroids more, huh?”

He smiled at her, fatigued and drowsily affectionate. “Yeah.”

Something about his face shook a feeling loose in Maggie, and she had to fight the frown that threatened to crease her forehead.

“You’ve… changed, Marty.”

He looked away again. “So have you.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Maggie,” he sighed heavily, reaching back and putting his hands on the desk, bracing himself as he leaned against the edge, “I really don’t.”

A lie. Plain as day, and Maggie wasn’t sure she really wanted to dig into the reasons he was keeping secrets from her, or the reasons that she felt so entitled to knowing his personal issues– but she didn’t really have time to dwell, because Marty’s hand had dislodged a tenuous pile of photographs, and they had shifted, exposing a collection of small pictures. In them, a man was lying on a bed of red silk, eyes closed and back arched in a manner that was undeniably intended to express eroticism.

And he was naked.

Maggie’s eyes widened; she had no idea why Marty would ever have these images in his studio. He’d once, in the earlier stages of his career, refused to shoot male models at all.

“Did you take these?”

She plucked a photo from the pile, and didn’t expect the way Marty stiffened, his jaw flexing, mouth tightening into a thin line. She, for a moment distracted by his instinctual defensiveness, didn’t initially realise what she was looking at. When the other shoe dropped, she almost felt ill.

“Is this… Rustin Cohle?”

Marty swallowed. His throat seemed tight– the action looked painful, as if an invisible hand were choking him. He took a laborious breath.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“I didn’t sanction this.” She stared dumbly at the photograph.

“It ain’t work stuff, Mags. Personal project, just somethin’ to,” he fidgeted, cleared his throat, “inspire me again.”

“You’ve never been inspired by men before.”

“What- What’s that supposed to mean?” He laughed. Too loudly, too nervously, and she thought, _Holy shit._ This was almost more than she could handle. Martin Hart, one of the straightest men she knew– and that was a matter of personal experience– was interested in a man. And not just any man. Rustin fucking Cohle.

“Do you understand how much trouble we could get into, if anyone finds out that you shot him?” She held up the photograph. Incriminating evidence. “This is serious, Marty.”

He scoffed, but seemed relieved. As if he’d thought she would comment on the sexual nature of the photographs, and open the giant can of fucking worms that was obviously waiting to rain a whole heap of shit down on his understanding of himself. She wasn’t interested in that. No, she cared far more about the potential career murder-suicide he may have accidentally instigated.

“Oh, come on, I didn’t use company funds-”

“He’s with Quesada. You remember him?”

“Yeah.” Marty shrugged. “Annoying little fucker hates me.”

Maggie just stared at him for a moment, as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “ _Vogue,_ Marty. Rustin Cohle is signed with _Vogue_. He’s their most lucrative global asset, and you think you can just pull him in for a photoshoot without putting _my_ company in jeopardy? They’ll _bury_ us, Marty! I don’t have the resources to fight that kind of takedown!”

Marty watched her with a shocking amount of deadpan calm. He nodded, slow and thoughtful, and the sincere regret in his face was enough to knock her over with astonishment.

 _Christ,_ she thought, _could this day get any weirder?_

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry Mags. I didn’t think.”

“I can see that, Marty,” she replied tiredly, putting down the photograph. Just as she was drawing breath to tell Marty never to pull that shit again, he interrupted her with downcast eyes and an unmistakeably pinkish tinge on his cheeks.

“But if I were to… hang out with him. Would that… be okay with you?”

She frowned. “…’Hang out’, Marty?”

Marty shrugged, and tried to look nonchalant. “He’s a nice guy.”

“…He’s famed for being one of the most difficult models on the market. He once knocked another model unconscious because they made a pass at him. Most people think he shouldn’t even be in the industry– his reputation is so bad that they’ve made a spectacle out of it.”

“Yeah, well,” Marty scratched at his neck, “I like him.”

Maggie raised her eyebrows. He didn’t meet her eyes, and she thought, _I’ll leave it alone._

“Don’t pay him.”

He beamed widely, taking that as permission, and gave her a mock-salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

The joy in his face, despite everything between them, made her smile. She tucked the portfolio more securely under her arm, and said, “How about that coffee?”

His grin widened. It really did feel like old times.

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in a rush because i'm having a terrible day and i needed to de-stress, sorry for any mistakes

Marty spent an hour getting dressed.

He chose a light blue shirt and a tie that was patterned with small, inconspicuous– what, flowers? Checks? Marty didn’t fucking know. By the time he finally found something to wear he was running late, and smoothing down his hair in the mirror was only making him feel depressed. He tried not to look too hard at the grey streaks through blond, chewing on his lip and doing his best to keep to breathing calmly.

If it weren’t for the email invitation he’d received this morning, he’d have thought that phone call never happened. It felt surreal. The memory of Rust’s younger voice, hoarse and rubbed raw by cigarettes, weaved through Marty’s head like a broken record.

Marty pulled on a navy blue suit jacket, tucked in his shirt, felt a wave of shame and helplessness and wondered where his youth had gone. He tried not to look too closely at his stomach, and turned to go, wondering why the fuck a thirty year-old man he barely knew would be interested in him.

 

***

 

Rust pawed at his face with a makeup wipe, movements fast and angry, ineffective in getting anything off. He felt closed-in, claustrophobic, and all he wanted to do was escape.

The show had been shit, as usual– meaning that it had gone perfectly, and Rust had, once again, not gathered the courage to flip off the audience midway through the catwalk. He’d been centre-stage. The main meal, the succulent roasted fucking chicken to be feasted on after the other models, bones and skin held together by stitching and handbags, were not enough to satisfy a crowd of drooling philanthropists and blinding cameras. He was sure that Quesada did it on purpose. Picked emaciated models that would make him look good, make the audience so hungry for _meat_ that they’d devour anything that came next.

Rust looked at himself in the mirror. The room was dark, because the show was over. His face was lit only by the glow of lightbulbs, and he wished he didn’t look beautiful. He wished his reflection properly encapsulated the bone-deep exhaustion that felt permanently etched into his skin.

Throughout the entire show, he’d tried to be subtle as he looked out over the audience. Searching, desperately, for Marty. He’d even stayed for all the interviews and fucking after-show pageantry bullshit, just on the off-chance that Marty would show up. He'd even stood there and let Ginger sidle up to him, hands lingering in all the wrong places as the paparazzi had their fill.

Rust threw the makeup wipe onto the table, put his head in his hands. It was getting hard to breathe. He tried to muss up his hair, fingers catching in the product that secured his hairstyle in place. He winced as the tug yanked at his scalp.

There had been a burning sensation in Rust’s chest all night. As if he was being tugged towards Marty, as if he was _so close,_ and all Rust needed to do was _find him…_

“Need some help?”

Rust sighed heavily into his palms. He’d kicked out all the makeup artists and personal groomers– even Johnny. He just wanted to be alone. Alone with Marty.

“’Ey,” a hand landed on his shoulder, “it’s me, Rust.”

Rust turned in his chair, ready to beat the shit out of whoever had come to interrupt him, but found himself unable to speak. Marty was smiling down at him, the comforting weight of his hand on Rust’s shoulder, and Rust noticed the clothes he was wearing; shades of blue, complimenting his eyes. Rust wondered if he’d ever met someone so handsome. Wondered if he’d ever known a person who didn’t need layers of makeup and deceit just to appear beautiful. Marty wore his age shyly, his hair patted down in an effort to make it appear more substantial, but Rust liked that. He liked the honesty that shone through Marty’s skin like an aura.

“I looked for you,” Rust said, without meaning to, quickly adding, “you weren’t at the show, you asshole.”

Marty laughed loudly, and Rust stared up at him with undisguised wonder. He’d never laughed like that in his life.

“I was, you smarmy prick,” Marty retorted good-naturedly, taking a seat in the chair next to Rust, “Quesada was keepin’ me from watchin’ much. Wanted to catch up, for old time’s sake.”

Rust noted the sarcasm in his tone. “You know that fucker?”

Marty snorted. “Unfortunately.”

“You work for him?” Rust pulled a fresh makeup wipe from the box, lifted it to his cheekbone.

“No. Worked _with_ him, for six years.”

“Why’d you stop?”

Marty grinned, an old affection softening his face. “Met someone.”

“A man?”

Marty’s grin disappeared in a flash. Rust wondered if he’d made a mistake.

“…No. A woman. Ended up working for her, even after the divorce went through.”

Rust nodded, eyes trained on the mirror now. He didn’t like his own reflection, but the uncertainty of navigating this conversation was far more terrifying than anything his own face could threaten him with.

“Ain’t you got a team of people to do that for you?”

“Yeah. Also got a team of people to tell me what to do, so if that’s why you’re here then you can fuck off right now.”

Marty paused, and Rust froze, regretting the harshness of his words as soon as they left his mouth. He hoped Marty could tell he didn’t mean it. _Don’t leave,_ he wanted to say, but couldn’t. He slumped, posture rigid and stressed, over the makeup bench, still wiping his face, cursing his inability to converse with other people like a normal fucking human being. He didn’t know how to flirt anymore. He didn’t even know how to talk.

“C’mere.”

Rust looked over at Marty. He had a hand extended, a kindness in his eyes that made Rust long for something he hadn’t wanted for a very, very long time. He handed over the wipe slowly, uncertainly. Marty took it and turned Rust’s chair so that they were facing each other. When he shifted forward, their knees touched.

“You heard the saying, ‘the path of least resistance’?” Marty took Rust’s chin in his fingers, cupping his jaw, and used his other hand to wipe makeup off Rust’s skin. The directness of his movements shocked Rust. He let his chin rest in Marty’s palm, and realised with a jolt of shock how long it’d been since he’d been touched by someone that he actually wanted.

“Yeah,” Rust muttered, eventually.

“Well, do that. Easiest way to deal with Quesada is by kissin’ ass.”

Rust watched Marty’s face tighten into a frown of concentration, wondered how the expression could appear so damn endearing on a grown man.

“I’ve spent eleven years of my life kissin’ ass, Marty. I’m done with it.”

Marty shrugged, as if it was no big deal, as if he knew all the solutions to all the world’s problems if only someone would ask him. “You could always do somethin’ else.”

“Ain’t got nothin’ else. Life’s barely long enough to get good at one thing.”

“Ah, you’re still young. You’ll figure it out.”

“…Don’t feel young.”

Marty’s hand stilled on Rust’s face. Maybe he saw the pain in Rust’s eyes, or maybe he just wanted this as much as Rust did– either way, his eyes flickered down to Rust’s mouth, and that was all the encouragement Rust needed before he leaned forward and kissed him tenderly; barely a breath, barely even a touch. He let his eyes close. Tried to allow vulnerability to take him over.

“Come home with me tonight,” he whispered.

“You... barely know me.” Marty replied, but didn’t move away.

“Right back at you.”

Mart’s answering laugh was a hush of air against Rust’s face. So Rust leaned forward and kissed him again, a little harder now. The wipe disappeared from his skin, discarded somewhere off to the side, and Marty’s hand tentatively rose to his neck, holding him like he was something precious, something fragile. Rust wanted more. He slid a hand onto Marty’s thigh, and that was when Marty stiffened.

“Shit, Rust, why,” Marty’s voice was pained, words edged with breathless gasps, “why’re you doin’ this with an old man like me?”

“You don’t feel old.”

Marty laughed again, sounding helplessly happy. “Now, I don’t even know what that means.”

Rust let his lips linger, let his breaths touch against Marty’s mouth gently. He stayed where he was, waiting for Marty to make a decision. Eventually, Marty’s hand tightened on his neck, a grip that felt safe beyond belief, and then he was kissing Rust back properly.

Everything felt right in a way that it never had before.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

Marty drove Rust back to his apartment.

It felt funny, taking someone back to _their place._ Marty didn’t do that. He usually had girls come into his home, where he could feel that he was on secure ground, sure footing. He certainly did not drive through glittering New York streets with a young man in his passenger seat, looking for all the world like someone that could be Marty’s son.

He was tucked into a loose white dress shirt, the fabric crisp and fitted to his upper body– deliberately designed to be too big, to make him appear younger than he was. He’d rolled up the sleeves and undone a few buttons, mussed his hair, lit a cigarette and held it between closed lips. The smoke filled Marty’s car, and he was shocked to realise he didn’t feel the need to cough. He was too fucking nervous.

It’d never felt this intense before. With women, he’d always felt in control. He had no idea what he was doing, and no clue why this felt so undeniably _right._

“Take a right up here,” Rust quietly told him, taking his cigarette between two fingers and gesturing.

Marty did as he was told. He tried not to think too hard about how much he liked Rust telling him what to do. He wanted to bite back playfully, but only for the sake of enjoyment. He wanted Rust to boss him around. He wanted this beautiful creature to have a hold over him.

“You live in a pretty upscale area, huh.” Marty remarked, leaning forward over the steering wheel and considering the stately skyscrapers that reached into the sky like monoliths, all metal and glass and stone cold money. “That modelling contract do well by you?”

Rust put his cigarette back between his lips. “As well as any indenture binding me to sellin’ my soul and body, yeah.”

Marty snorted. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re older than your years?”

“Usually they just tell me I’m a fuckin’ annoyance.”

Marty glanced at him, and then away. He swallowed, licked at his lips.

“I dunno,” he cleared his throat, “you seem okay to me.”

He knew Rust was looking at him again, so he determinedly continued to look out the windscreen.

The rest of the ride was silent.

 

***

 

Rust’s apartment was cold. His walls were bare and the place was one of those ridiculously modern open-plan apartments, so when Marty walked in he could immediately see the entirety of the barren home. Everything was in tones of grey and off-white, and there was a stark black cross hanging above Rust’s minimalist bed. Marty was about to comment, about to ask whether Rust was religious– though he somehow felt that the answer would be _fuck no–_ when he noticed the cardboard boxes stacked against the wall opposite Rust’s bed.

“You, uh… move in recently, or…?”

“Nah.” Rust walked to his bedside table, dropped his cigarette into a stained mug. “Been here for six years.”

Marty raised his eyebrows. Rust turned and regarded him with a dull, tired look. His hand wandered down to the front of his shirt and started undoing buttons, and Marty let his eyes follow the deft, quick movements of long fingers. He was frozen in place, unable to move. Smooth skin was exposed, inch by inch, until they were standing before one another, eyes locked in place. Marty gawked at him and tried to think of something to say.

Rust slid the shirt off his shoulders. He tipped his head back, eyes never leaving Marty’s, lips parting with a soft breath.

“You oughta be doin’ this with someone your own age,” Marty whispered, “Rust…”

“Don’t wanna do this with someone my own age. Wanna do this with you.”

He dropped the shirt by his feet and stood there, hips canted forward as his body settled into a leanly relaxed posture. Marty envied him, and wondered whether he was really as calm as he acted. The instinct that he _wasn’t_ made Marty pause– he felt that he could see Rust, see beneath his skin. See the truth of him. Decipher the apathetic role that he continually performed, and what it hid.

That thought propelled Marty forward. He stepped, slowly, forward. Approaching Rust like he was afraid– which he was.

When they came together, it was innocent enough. Mouths meeting in a chaste kiss, a small brush of lips that made Marty’s heart hammer. He reached around, stroked his fingers down the length of Rust’s spine, smoothing over the sharp wings of Rust’s shoulder blades and trailing down to rest just above the curve of Rust’s ass. He felt the edge of denim and the leather of a belt against his hand as Rust’s body rolled against him.

Rust smelled delicious. The perfume of the show had faded, leaving a faint smell that clung to his skin– beneath that, a unique scent that was musky and heavy, and Marty realised he wanted to make Rust smell _like him._ He moved closer, the press of their bodies winding his anxiety and excitement even tighter. Rust’s hands had risen to cup his neck, and the touch was insistent enough that Marty was held still, gripped in place. He felt lightheaded. Dizzy.

“Rust-” Marty breathed.

“Mm,”

“You- You make a habit of sleeping with older men?”

“Nah. Don’t make a habit of sleepin’ with anyone.” Rust ducked his head down, thumbs pressing into the underside of Marty’s chin, making Marty arch his head back so that Rust could nuzzle his neck, bite at his skin. Marty heard himself whimper as Rust’s tongue dragged a wet stripe over his jugular.

“Fuck,” Marty moaned, “shit,”

Rust took Marty’s hips in his hands, rocking their bodies together. Marty could feel the thick, solid line straining against Rust’s jeans, and he was frightened how it made him feel. How _all of this_ made him feel.

He was mindless, following the rhythm that Rust was dictating, trying not to beg for more. Rust tugged him forward and stepped away in one fluid motion, towards the bed. He pulled back slightly, gasping quietly. Like he was giving Marty a chance to say no.

Marty looked at him. Looked at the emotion in his eyes, the intimate vulnerability that was slipping through his beautiful mask. He saw someone who was damaged, someone who was desperate and alone, boxes crowding his home for want of human warmth and connection; someone who was more a boy than a man, and could not admit it.

He took Rust’s face between his hands, kissed him. Deeply, tenderly, ignoring his own fears and insecurities. He took his time, made Rust feel how much he _meant it._

After a moment of vulnerability, when Rust’s bare shoulders curved in timidly, hands tightening where they cupped Marty’s neck, Rust pulled him towards the bed again. Marty yanked off his shirt, and Rust’s hands dropped to his belt. Everything, in a flash, started to speed up. They sank down onto the bed, clothes tangled, Rust sprawling on top of Marty, moving with a languid haste. A fluid undulation of bones and curves. Hips driving, torso swaying, long lines and sloping muscles.

“Want you inside me,” Marty demanded brokenly, eyes closed as he flushed from his hairline to his collarbone, ears burning and body tingling, trapped by Rust’s weight against him, “please, Rust,”

“Wouldn’t think you’d be the kinda man to ask for anythin’,” Rust growled, sounding helpless and more turned on than Marty, if that was even possible, “shit, are you sure-”

“C’mon,” Marty snapped, trying to make his voice sound authoritative but failing entirely, “don’t make me say it again.”

Rust stilled. His moth left Marty’s, and he lifted himself up onto his arms. “Maybe I wanna hear you say it again.”

Marty opened his eyes reluctantly. He wanted to cross his arms over his chest, hide his body, but Rust reached down, slid his fingers under the waistband of Marty’s best pants. Marty’s lips parted with a gasp, and Rust watched him, enraptured.

“…Want you inside me, Rust,’ Marty mumbled, embarrassed.

Rust rewarded him by moving his hand further downwards. “You ever done this before?”

Marty closed his eyes, shuddering at the warmth of Rust’s fingers.

“Fuck,” Rust breathed, “you’re gonna… give me that? You don’t even-”

He cut himself off. Didn’t say, _you don’t even know me,_ because this felt different. This felt like more than just a one night stand. Marty had experienced enough of those to know the difference.

Marty kept his eyes closed when Rust leaned down to kiss him, returning the tenderness that Marty had treated him with before.

“I got you,” he promised, “yeah, Marty? You hearin’ me?”

“I’m hearin’ you, Rust.”

And he really was. He reached up, pulled Rust close against him, gave in.

This felt right.

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

It wasn’t the act itself that made Marty quake to his core, that had him lying back with warm, contented nervousness, eyes closed and mouth opened in a perpetual plea for air. He felt more raw and alive than he had in years, as Rust’s body gently thrust into him, and when he dared open his eyes a hot flame sparked through his chest as he saw the slopes and shapes of Rust’s young body, tapering down to the softness of his waist and the hardness between his legs– where they were _connected,_ where they were _together._ Marty had never been fucked before. He was sure it ought to have been more difficult, more painful, but he lifted his knees and wrapped his legs around Rust, pulling him down and close, sloppily kissing that tempting mouth. This did not frighten him.

The gentleness of it. The adoration, the unspoken weight of something behind their skin– that was what made tears pearl in the corners of his eyes, rolling down his cheeks silently as Rust breathed raggedly against his cheek. There was a feeling building inside him, and it was more than just arousal, more than just embarrassment. He whimpered, holding Rust close, and as he came he felt the intensity of memories, years of secrets and friendship, the lives of two strangers whispering in his ears. He saw, in a flash of vision, a tree. Surrounded by fire. He tipped his head back against the pillow, gasping as he tasted aluminium and ash, the harsh flavours mingling with salt and dancing on his tongue.

The air was singing with something. Marty wondered if Rust could feel it too, and he’d have opened his mouth to inquire, but he found himself unable to speak. A symphony. Something that he had never experienced, humming against the fragile bones of his ribcage. It took his words and left him in breathless surrender.

Then it was over.

He opened his eyes, looked up at Rust. Looked at his cheeks, hot with a visceral blush, and his eyes, creased at the sides by worry, brightened with lust. He was panting, and Marty realised with a jolt that Rust had just _come inside him._

“Marty, you’re cryin’,” Rust drew his thumb across Marty’s cheek, catching his tears, his voice tight and worried, “why the hell didn’t you say somethin’ if you were-”

“It’s fine.” Marty caught his hand, lifted it to his mouth. Kissed his fingertips, soft licks against the pads of his fingers, eyes falling closed again. He felt himself smiling, and couldn’t help it. Couldn’t hold it back. He knew that they were only strangers, but he didn’t want to resist whatever this was. “I’m fine, Rust. Promise.”

Rust sighed from above him, the exhalation ticking Marty’s face. “A’ight. Long as you’re sure.”

There was a pause, and then Rust’s weight was moving, shifting back– and he was pulling out, more sudden than Marty was prepared for. He whined, pained by the loss and the unexpected intimacy of such a strange feeling, but Rust was immediately moving down next to him, kissing him on the lips, hand moving around to hold Marty’s face. Marty turned his head lazily on the pillow, heard Rust’s apology in his touch and in the broad sweep of his tongue, and was sated by it. He felt melted, aching; tender and sensitive, in a way he never had been before.

He heard the click of a lighter, the hushed breath of Rust’s lips around a cigarette. Then there was the texture of thin paper against his lips, fingers hovering above his face. Marty had a drag of the cigarette, eyes still closed, and coughed from inexperience. Rust chuckled and the cigarette disappeared again.

An arm cradled Marty. A body alongside him, the warmth of skin. Rust settled in to smoke, and Marty lay against him.

They didn’t speak for a while. Marty listened to Rust inhale and exhale, gentle and patient as clockwork, feeling his chest rise and fall with every intake of smoke. He let one arm drape across Rust’s stomach, hand dangling limply, temple against the meat of Rust’s shoulder. He felt heavy and warm– the secret he could not fathom, the mystery of aluminium and ash, was fading from his awareness as he succumbed to sleep. He felt safe, here, in this bedroom. Beside Rust.

“You always this quiet, afterwards?” Marty mumbled eventually, words barely coherent, half his mouth against Rust’s skin.

“Yeah.” Rust replied softly. There was a pulse of vulnerability, a shame in his voice, borne of expectation and discomfort with past lovers. Marty wasn’t having that. He shifted closer, nodded against Rust’s shoulder.

“S’okay,” he sighed, voice a garbled mess of sound, “Don’t mind. I like it.”

Rust hummed a vague reply.

“It was… good for you though, right?”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“Well,” Marty cleared his throat shyly, “I ain’t never done this before, so it ain’t like I got much to compare to.”

Rust was silent again, and Marty could tell he was weighing those words– becoming aware, again, of what Marty had given him, what hovered between them and revealed itself only in the form of an unnameable trust and a deepness that should’ve taken years to feel. Marty knew he wanted to say the words aloud, question what they were doing– but neither of them wanted that. Neither of them wanted to put a name to what this was, even if they could.

“Relax, Marty. It was fine.”

Marty laughed. “You sure know how to give a guy a compliment.”

“Sex ain’t nothin’ special for me. Usually speakin’, it serves a purpose, and that’s it. I get off, they get off. That’s all there is to it.”

Marty’s eyes snapped open, a heavy feeling setting into his stomach. He lifted himself up onto one arm, face cold.

“What, so I was just a glorified wank, huh?”

Rust looked up at him, hair mussed, lips closed around his cigarette– and then, for a moment, panic sparked in his eyes, his jaw tightening. He rolled onto his side, taking his cigarette between two fingers as he gazed up at Marty with as much wonder and adoration as Marty had ever seen in the eyes of another person.

“No,” he murmured, “No, that ain’t what I’m sayin’.”

Marty glared down at him, and Rust ducked his head, hair falling into his eyes. He took Marty’s hand, fingers gently folding, tender and hesitant.

“Tryin’ to tell you that I enjoyed it.” He muttered. “Which is… rare. For me.”

It was hardly a confession of love, but the endearingly nervous nature of Rust’s admission warmed Marty’s heart, shocking him out of his paranoia. He smiled, turning over his hand, threading their fingers together.

“So. Yeah, there’s your fuckin’ compliment.”

Marty laughed, delighted. He leaned down and sought out Rust’s mouth for a kiss. “You’re so cute.”

“Shut up,” Rust protested.

Lit by only the glow of city lights, warm together in Rust’s bed, Marty moved on top of him, for once unashamed of his body when Rust’s hand settled onto his waist, the cigarette quickly discarded in the dirty, ash-stained mug. They kissed, slow and easy, and Rust was not thinking about the isolation of a single human being– rather, he was not thinking at all.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sigh.... if only falling in love in real life was as easy as it is in fanfiction......
> 
> aNYWAY, yes, this chapter was quite short, but I'm having some difficulty with my injuries right now; so I'll be adding an extra chapter, to compensate~ <3 Thank you everyone, for all your comments so far. I really, really appreciate the support.


	15. Chapter 15

When Marty woke up, Rust was standing at his bedside, a cup of steaming black coffee held lightly in one hand. Marty’s eyes wandered down to the tenuous tie of Rust’s silken dressing gown, where the shimmering white garment was loosely held to his body. It was a short, unfairly erotic piece; it fluttered above Rust’s knees, his brown body revealed in glimpses whenever he moved. Marty hummed as he took the coffee, a pulse of disbelieving bliss pounding through him as he remembered the thrills of last night. The normalcy of this– of waking up in this apartment, of the ache inside him– felt surreal. Rust was framed by twilight, the cityscape behind him dim with a lavender sky, and Marty wondered whether this was what heaven felt like.

“This don’t look like somethin’ you’d wear normally,” Marty murmured, catching Rust’s waist and pulling him down onto the bed, “this all for me?"

Rust straddled him– and the quick dart of his eyes, cutting nervously to the side of Marty’s face, was the only visible indicator that Marty had guessed right. Marty chuckled and leaned upwards, depositing the coffee on the bedside table as he slotted their mouths together. Rust relaxed into him after a pause, placing his hands on Marty’s shoulders, steadying himself. The bed dipped under his knees, the mattress creaking quietly when he swayed his hips.

He felt Marty’s hand wandering onto his thigh, holding him. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what he liked most about Marty, if there even was something specific; he’d never had a thing for older men before, and to call this a desperate midlife crisis would’ve been an insult to the intensity of the experience. He liked _everything_ about Marty. He liked how easy this all was, how simple Marty’s emotions were, how he wore his heart on his sleeve and didn’t play cruel games. He heard himself making a noise, low and content, when Marty’s hand curiously explored below the folds of his dressing gown. Marty’s breath stuttered a little, and it occurred to Rust that he’d be inexperienced with this. With touching another man.

“Y’like me in silk, huh,” Rust whispered, eyes closed as he took Marty’s hand, guided it towards where he ached most, “just like when we first met.”

“Christ,” Marty breathed, “yeah, yeah I do.”

Rust moaned and let his head fall forward. He felt Marty’s hand give him a tentative squeeze, and he didn’t hold back the shudder that punched through his body like a shock.

“I ain’t gonna get to drink that coffee, am I?”

“I’ll make you another damn coffee,” Rust answered weakly, “later.”

Marty moved his hand again, and Rust thought about the callouses on those palms, the lines that softened Marty’s eyes when he smiled. He thought of blue skies and easy conversation, of a field somewhere filled with sunflowers, hands clasped together against the onward march of time. And he didn’t know why, he didn’t know how, but he _knew_ Marty. He knew his touch, his kiss, the cadence of his broken voice when Marty breathed harshly against his cheek.

He lifted himself up, thighs tightening, arching into Marty’s touch. Clinging to him, helpless sounds building in his throat, face pressed against into Marty’s neck like there was nothing else he was capable of doing but _holding on._

“Is this,” Marty’s voice was wrecked, strained by emotion, “Is this good? Am I doin’ this right?”

“Yeah, Marty, _shit-”_

“Tell me. Want you to tell me how this feels.”

Rust let out a desperate gasp of laughter. As if he could describe this. As if he could encapsulate the epiphanies that Marty’s hands seemed capable of painting on his skin. He pulled Marty closer, leaning into him as he rocked his hips– and he tried, he really did, but the words just wouldn’t come.

He shook his head. Marty’s hand moved faster, his other arm reaching around Rust to hold him tight.

“It’s okay,” Marty breathed, “I know. I know.”

 

***

 

They went to breakfast. It was some new age place, full of young models instagramming their meals and taking selfies with small dogs. Rust ordered them both coffees, and a full breakfast plate to share. Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, mashed avocado– the whole deal. Marty dug into his breakfast like he hadn’t eaten in months, and Rust watched with undisguised amusement. Shit, who’d have thought he could ever _enjoy_ watching someone eat?

“You gonna have some?” Marty asked, his cheeks full of food. Rust shook his head calmly, and Marty’s eyes narrowed in annoyance.

“You can’t buy a man breakfast, then just sit there and not eat anythin’. Makin’ me feel like an asshole here, Rust.”

Rust sighed quietly. He picked up a piece of bacon, tore it in half with his teeth, chewed, swallowed. The annoyance faded from Marty’s expression, and his eyes fixed on the way Rust’s throat moved with the action. Rust felt his heart thump, just a tad harder than normal. He ate the other half of the bacon slower, let Marty watch. He could feel the grease moistening his lips.

“Puttin’ on a real show, huh,” Marty cleared his throat, fidgeted, “fuck, you’re gonna give this old man a heart attack.”

Rust made a point of licking his lips, watched the way Marty’s eyes widened. “You ain’t old.”

“I ain’t got the stamina for this, you li’l shit.”

“You sure had stamina this mornin’, in the shower.”

Marty choked on his food. Rust let his mouth quirk into a grin as Marty coughed. A few of the other tables looked over, but Rust ignored them. Marty had a desperate gulp of his water, waving away the waiter that came to inquire as to his wellbeing.

Marty glared at him, and Rust smiled. Without thinking, without rationalising or giving himself a chance to think twice about what he was doing– or about the fact he was surrounded by people who would sell a picture of them to the paparazzi without thinking twice– Rust placed his hand on top of Marty’s.

“It feels right. Bein’ with you.”

Marty’s face slackened with surprise. But only for a moment. His cutlery clinked quietly as he discarded it, before leaning across the table and pressing a quick kiss to Rust’s mouth. By the time he was in his seat again about twenty photographs had been taken, but their eyes met, and neither of them cared. The connection between them nestled, warm and safe, between their hands. Under their skin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> was intending to write more, but unfortunately have spent a great deal of time in hospital lately, so i'm kinda busy dealing with... everything else in my life.... @_@ ..... once again, this is not beta read, pls forgive any mistakes....  
> HOPE YOU ENJOYED, THANK U SO MUCH FOR READING <3  
> (also, kudos to those of you who caught the WWG reference ;D )


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